


Of Spasms and Emu Oil

by queerlyobscure (softestpunk)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:18:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/queerlyobscure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock suffers from muscle spasms. Lucky there's a doctor in the house. Originally written for H/C Bingo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Spasms and Emu Oil

“John! John!”

This time, he was ready for it. No more being ordered around by his ridiculous flatmate, no more being called down from his room to hand him a phone that was less than ten feet away. No. More. He was not Sherlock Holmes' servant, no matter what the other man might think.

“Listen, Sherlock-” He began, ready to give the other man a piece of his mind, when he actually looked at him. Shoulders hunched awkwardly, standing very still, and clearly trying to hide the fact that he was in pain. “What's wrong?”

“Back. Shoulders. Help.” Sherlock practically squeaked the last word.

Talks about not ordering him around could wait, if the man was really in pain. John crossed the room swiftly, and stopped by Sherlock's side. “Does this happen often?”

Sherlock nodded carefully. John sighed, and moved around behind him. “I'm going to touch you now, feel free to scream if it hurts.” 

If it was possible, Sherlock tensed even more. Nervous of doing further damage, John set his hands gently to Sherlock's neck and rubbed his thumbs into the tensed muscles there. The other man made every effort to stifle a whimper, but didn't try to move away. “If I make it worse, tell me straight away.”

Sherlock didn't react at all, and John started rubbing carefully to relax his shoulders. “I know how you feel, you know. I get this sometimes.” He kept rubbing gently, trying to get the cramping muscles to loosen. Sherlock was mostly silent, other than a few hitched breaths.

Slowly, he could feel the tension easing as he kneaded hard into the other man's flesh, and eventually he was rewarded with a sigh of relief. He continued rubbing, more to soothe than heal now, but oddly unwilling to stop just yet.

“That's much better. You have healing hands, John” Sherlock rolled his shoulders slowly

“Yes, well. Doctor. I can put some emu oil on it in a minute, if you like?”

“Is that what you use?” Sherlock whirled around to look at John questioningly. John nodded, suddenly feeling shy, for no reason he could pinpoint. Sherlock did that to him a lot, come to think. 

“Yeah, it's good for sore muscles. Why does it happen to you?” 

“I tend to fall asleep in chairs. Bad habit, I know, but I can't quite bring myself to give it up. Still, not as bad as getting shot, I imagine.”

“Probably not,” John smiled wryly, “I'll go get the rub. Try not to do it again while I'm gone.”

During the trip up the stairs, John took the time to wonder why he'd just practically asked Sherlock to take his shirt off so he could get his hands on him. He was quite certain that wasn't the sort of thing you were supposed to do with flatmates. But then, the sort of thing you were supposed to do with flatmates didn't usually include solving murders, so maybe that was just how his life was going to go from now on; doing strange things with his flatmate.

Disembarking from that particular train of thought by the time he got back to the sitting room would have been a good idea, as it might have prevented it from being completely derailed when he walked in. Sherlock was standing, facing the mantle and staring into the fire as he so often did, except without a shirt. 

Well, that made sense, really. It didn't make it any less of a shock, seeing your flatmate half-naked for the first time. Still, it was better than seeing him completely naked for the first time, especially if it was by accident and what had he been thinking about, again?

Sherlock turned around, miraculously aware of John's presence for perhaps the fifth time since he'd moved in. “Ah, thank you. I can put it on myself, if you like.”

“No you can't, don't be ridiculous. You'd do yourself an injury.” John walked over to Sherlock, thought about how difficult it had been to fix his back given his height, and paused.

“I'll go sit in the kitchen, shall I?” Sherlock was already walking towards the kitchen table, and had sat down backwards on a chair by the time John regained his wits. It was a good solution to the height problem. A logical solution. Which was another thing he had to get used to, the always having a solution bit. No more fumbling around in the dark.

And there was another train of thought he should really get off before it crashed, too. He busied himself with the jar, and concentrated on smoothing the ointment over Sherlock's shoulders. Which was fine. It was good, even. Perhaps better than good, and when Sherlock made a noise that suggested he thought it was good as well, John had to stop. There was a road there that he didn't want to go down right now.

Ever. He meant ever. 

“Done?” 

Sherlock did not sound disappointed. He did not, and John didn't care whether he did or not, really, anyway.

“Yeah, done. Feeling better?” 

“Feeling brilliant. We'll have to do this again some time.” Sherlock leaned forward and rested against the back of the chair.

“I'm not your doctor.” John wasn't sure what to do with himself, so he stood around awkwardly, fiddling with the jar.

“Perhaps not. But you are most certainly mine.”


End file.
